


Across the Universe (Or, Stiles Accidentally Goes to a Bunch of Weird Places)

by shakespearesque



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Fantasy, M/M, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 21:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearesque/pseuds/shakespearesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles does dumb things sometimes. Like, really dumb. Like, accidentally-ending-up-universe-hopping-and-being-thrust-into-Dereky-situations dumb. And then he has to go along with it.</p>
<p>Based on <a href="http://tonystaarks.tumblr.com/post/30413802006/sourwolf-sourwolf-teen-wolf-fandom-you-are">this post</a> on tumblr. I know it's not the exact same (yet?) but I like to call that artistic liberty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Universe (Or, Stiles Accidentally Goes to a Bunch of Weird Places)

Stiles really wants to draw the line at werewolves. He tries his absolute hardest to believe that there are no other supernatural creatures in existence because that is too much for his brain to take (Scott is more than enough for him to handle) and also vampires are really scary-looking, but his life doesn’t really work like that. 

He learns that there are witches after a very normal day at school when a scary lady gives him a laptop and tells him she’s a witch. He is extremely disinclined to believe that she is a witch, of course, but he takes the laptop anyway and figures he’ll be able to do homework on it sometime.

As the fates would have it, she indeed is a witch.

(Or, as Stiles’ brain reasons, she is just a woman who has the ability do magic, which can possibly be stretched to be put under a category that isn’t “witch.” Maybe she’s a clairvoyant. Or a plastic surgeon.) 

Regardless, the fucking laptop is fucking magic and Stiles has been witched in the face by a witch. 

The bitch.

He’d opened it and booted it up and, stupidly, ignored Derek’s text _(stiles don’t use the laptop she’s a witch dammit)_ and clicked on the one icon on the desktop which was a little weird swirly V thing with a circle in it, and that opened and took up the whole screen and then took up the whole room and everything went black and Stiles had no clue where the hell he was.

So right now he has no clue where he is. He’s by himself, and once everything settles he realizes he’s standing before the façade of a building—a little redbrick thing with a trying-too-hard antique door and a sign reading The Daily Grind. He looks around, but all is black except for the building, like he’s in a tunnel and the only way out is through the door. 

Maybe he got transported into a computer game? He’d always thought it would be super-cool to be Zelda. Maybe he’s Zelda. (He steps towards the door and sees his reflection and no, he isn’t Zelda.) Oh well. He’ll act like Zelda, and press on in the face of oppression. The oppression in this instance being that he is literally forced to go into the brick building because there literally isn’t anywhere else to go. 

Literally. He’s more oppressed than a panini. (Oh shit…) 

He draws in a deep breath and turns the doorknob only to open the door and find himself in a warm coffeeshop smelling of cinnamon and caramel. Oh. At least it isn’t a dentists’ office or anything similarly terrifying. He walks towards the counter, standing out of the line so that he can look up at the menu. A few seconds pass before the guy at the counter clears his throat to get Stiles’ attention.

“Are you ready to order?” he asks, and Stiles looks down and nearly shits himself. The baristo looks startled, too, but he grins familiarly. “Hey,” he says.

Stiles cannot respond accordingly. It’s Derek. The guy is the spitting image of Derek and he talks the same and he has the same teeth and the same eyes and the same muscled shoulders and he’s _smiling,_ what the fuck. 

“What the fuck?” Stiles says, and this Derek-at-the-counter’s eyes widen in the slightest. 

“Order?” he repeats, like Stiles was asking for clarification. Stiles steps forward, shaking off how weird this is. He reads off the first thing he sees on the menuboard and the Derek-y guy laughs. (What. Laughing, too?) 

“Weren’t you just in here like an hour ago?” he asks, still grinning with his beautiful teeth. “Ordering the same exact drink?”

Stiles looks down because he’s confused out of his actual mind and he ends up on the guy’s name tag: Derek.

So he definitely is Derek. If this is a video game, that witch is one weirdass creepy motherfucker because she put Derek in it. As a barista. _What._

“No,” Stiles says. “I, um…no, I wasn’t just here?”

Derek laughs again, lightly. “I see,” he says, drawing out the _ee,_ and winks conspiratorially. “The usual for Stiles,” he says to the girl at the coffee machine behind him. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this situation.

“I, um.” Stiles says again, and he digs his wallet out of his pocket and lays a $5 bill on the counter and rubs his burning cheeks with the palm of one of his hands. He’s so confused and this is so weird and _Derek is working at a coffee shop sweet fuck what kind of world is this._ Derek gives him a few quarters in change and brushes his thumb against the side of Stiles’ hand as he does so and it’s way too intimate and overall really strange and Derek smiles up at him and Stiles forces himself to smile back and seriously, what?

“Stiles,” the girl calls, and if he were to allow himself he would say she looks exactly like Erica. Which could possibly mean that she is Erica. He doesn’t want to know so he grabs his drink from her outstretched hand and goes to the door without even glancing back at Barista Derek. (Okay, he actually does glance back. But then he goes straight out the door.)

He rushes out, not even thinking about the fact that outside is just empty space and blackness, and suddenly he’s falling.

-

He lands on a trampoline, which is really fortunate and all that good stuff, but it is also a bit unfortunate because 1. He falls pretty far and builds up a lot of momentum in the process so when he lands he is bounced quite far back up into the air and 2. He’s somewhere else that is also not his bedroom and that apparently is still going to be a problem. 

Once the trampoline stops flinging him up above the line of the trees he stops himself and gets down. This time, his path isn’t blocked and he can go anywhere, it seems, but if he uses his video game skills he figures his goal is the house that is just in front of the trampoline. He’ll take the front door, he decides, and he walks around and out of the backyard.

There are quite a few cars out front. Stiles first notices a blue Jeep that looks suspiciously like his except shinier (wow, thanks, witch) and a black Camaro that looks suspiciously like Derek’s parked in the garage next to each other, and then he sees the legion of cars lining the street in front of the driveway, and the balloons tied to the mailbox, and he connects the dots and _it’s a birthday party._

Wait, why is his Jeep parked in the garage with Derek’s?

He briefly wonders if this is the same world as the one he was just in with the coffee shop. He wonders some more things like _am I going to be shot at if I intrude_ and _does my hair look okay_ and _seriously, it that supposed to be my Jeep?_

“Stiles!” Derek calls, smiling, opening the front door before he even gets the chance to knock. “That was quick.”

“What was quick?” he asks without thinking, and Derek gives him a weird look before laughing like _oh, I get it! You’re being facetious! Cute._

“Come in, silly, the kids have been waiting. Where are the cupcakes?”

Stiles has no fucking clue where the cupcakes are, or why Derek is all peppy, or why he called him “silly” or what kids he’s talking about. _The kids._ Oh, god. That sounds. Um.

“Uh, in the car?” Stiles says, because apparently he’s learning! If this is a video game, he has to play along, right, and maybe the cupcakes will magically be in his car if he says they’re in the car. He’s not really sure what he’ll do if they’re not in the car.

“I’ll get them, babe, go in and entertain them.” Derek smiles and kisses him on the cheek (Kisses! Him! On! The! Cheek!) and ushers Stiles in and closes the door when he’s outside. Um.

Stiles walks through the house, led by the sound of children laughing and parents making awkward small talk and he pops around the corner to see about 15 first graders sitting in the living room. Two boys are sitting in the middle of the crowd and Stiles immediately recognizes them as First Grade Scott and First Grade Jackson and wow what the actual flying shit. 

“Daddy!” First Grade Scott yells. He rushes up and hugs Stiles around the thighs and then pulls him over to the circle. First Grade Jackson smiles and waves at him and Scott starts talking a mile a minute. (That is, 60 mph.) “Is Dad getting the cupcakes? What do they look like? Did you see anybody we know at the grocery store? This is my friend Boyd! He just moved from Mippississi.”

Stiles laughs because he’s immediately endeared. “Mississippi,” he says softly. If he ever has kids one day (and he hopes to sweet Jesus that it’s far in the future) he decides he wants them to be kind of like this. Except the whole Daddy-Dad thing? With? Derek?

Almost as if on cue, Derek comes in with two huge boxes of cupcakes, one stacked on top of the other. “Dad!” Scott says, and, yeah, there it is. Derek grins and waves Scott over to look at the cupcakes. Jackson follows. 

“They’re awesome!” Scott squeals, and finally Jackson breathes out a “Whoa.” The other kids rush over to see them, because little kids can’t feel left out of anything, and they all giggle and gush about how much they want one.

“Can we have one, Dad?” Scott pleads, and Derek bites his lip.

“They’re supposed to be for later,” he says.

“Pleeease,” Jackson says, doing puppy eyes at Derek. Stiles walks over to stand by Derek because somehow he feels like he’s supposed to and Derek grins and rolls his eyes fondly at Stiles before taking the lid off the box of cupcakes.

“Okay, guys, only because you look pitiful.” The kids cheer and Stiles is totally caught up in this sugar-icing-Cinnabon Derek who obviously has a will made out of sea sponge and the kids who are laughing and cooing at the cupcakes (they’re superhero, Stiles notes as Scott gets a Spiderman one and Jackson gets an Incredible Hulk one) and why the hell is he here, again? It’s so wonderful and lovely and it’s like the witch did this to torture him with things he can’t have. He smiles almost wistfully at Derek and Derek hands him an Iron Man cupcake.

“Iron Man’s my favorite,” Derek says, and licks a bit of icing off his thumb in the most innocently lascivious way possible. He grins and Stiles is so pleased he wants to cry. He wants to revel in it but _it’s not real, it’s not real_ thrums in the back of his head.

It’s not real. 

Derek’s done passing out the cupcakes and is about to take one for himself when Stiles reaches over and gets one for him.

“Captain America is _my_ favorite,” he says, and he winks as he places it in Derek’s hands. Derek’s smile melts Stiles’ brain into a puddle of goo and cupcake icing and apple juice. He smiles back and the doorbell rings.

“Go get it, it’s probably the bouncy house guy. I’ll clean up.” Derek kisses him on the cheek again, wetly, and Stiles wants to feel Derek’s lips on him forever. It’s so fucking weird, though, Derek would never be like this. This isn’t Derek. It’s a dad who is way too loving and just _looks_ like Derek. He has children and is throwing a birthday party and loves Iron Man and it totally doesn’t make sense. Even if somehow Stiles could get into this situation, it wouldn’t be…you know?

He shakes it off and goes to the door. He forgets what he’s doing again, opens it unthinkingly, and finds himself stepping out in front of a club at night, stars glittering and cigarette smoke curling and a heavy, heavy weight on his shoulders.

-

“God dammit!” he says, almost falling to the ground with the weight of whoever is draped over him. 

It’s Derek. Of course it’s Derek.

“Stiiiiles,” Derek says, and synapses quickly meet synapses so that Stiles gathers that Derek is completely wasted and he is supposed to be taking him home. 

“You weigh like four thousand pounds,” Stiles groans, hefting him up. Oh, look, he’s getting the hang of this thrust-into-weird-worlds thing that’s going on. He’s starting to sound Stiles-y again. He might have also realized that to get out he has to go along with it.

“Mmm,” Derek moans, sliding a hand down Stiles’ back.

“Hand,” Stiles warns, and Derek slips it into Stiles’ pocket. Okay. That was exactly what he was warning _against._ Did the witch program all this shit?

He’s half-dragged him all the way over to the Camaro before he remembers werewolves can’t even get drunk. Weird.

“Keys,” he says, and Derek makes no move to get them. “Derek.” Derek groans and Stiles props him up against the side of the car, keeping him up with a hip on a hip and a hand under an armpit. He puts his face close to Derek’s. “Are you even a werewolf?”

Derek’s eyes open slowly. “What?” he asks. Stiles just stares at him. Then his eyes slip shut again and he laughs deep in his chest. “Werewolves aren’t real, Stiles.”

Oh. He backs up. “Is Scott a werewolf?” he asks, because this is really weird too. Maybe there aren’t werewolves here? He hadn’t even considered it in the other worlds.

“Scott? Your friend? He’s…he’s still inside.”

Stiles sighs. “But he’s not a werewolf, is he?”

Derek laughs again. “I don’ even know what you’re talking about, man.” Stiles raises his eyebrows and puts a hand out.

“Keys,” he says again, resigned. 

Derek shakes his head floppily. “Left pocket,” he says, lips curling into a devilish grin. Stiles reaches in because it’s all he can do and it’s warm and oddly intimate and, okay, empty.

“They’re not in here,” he grits out, and retracts his hand. 

Derek snorts, grinning like it was his plan all along. “Right pocket, then.”

“You suck so much,” Stiles says without any real contempt, and reaches in to find the keys warm against Derek’s hip. Derek groans when Stiles’ fingers brush the bottom of the pocket. “Shut up,” Stiles murmurs, mostly to himself, and he heaves Derek around to the other side of the car to get him in the passenger seat.

They’re in the car, Stiles driving to the Hale house because for some reason he knows exactly how to get there from the club, and Derek is fucking, like, palming his dick through his jeans in the seat next to him. 

“Can you not?” Stiles says. He’s making the most obscene noises and Stiles is a bit scared Derek’s going to come in his pants and he is going to wreck the car as a result. 

He looks over as Derek bucks his hips up and, um, fuck, no. He kind of wants to reach over and hold him down, or grab his hand so he stops, but when he tries (seriously, who lets him make these decisions?) he just palms Derek himself and _this is so ridiculous._ Derek moans and takes Stiles’ hand in his and presses it against the hard ridge of his cock. Stiles feels himself twitch in his pants.

“Hello, um, driving?” Stiles says, his voice choked with something he really doesn’t want to call arousal but totally fucking is. What the hell? “Derek--” 

Derek grinds himself up once more into Stiles’ hand and then lets go and sits still. “Thank you,” Stiles says, and makes the turn onto the road into the woods. He releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and parks the car. 

Derek’s head is lolled to the side and Stiles just wants to leave him to his own devices so that he can leave and so that he doesn’t try any more funny business but he looks so helpless that Stiles gets out, opens Derek’s door, unbuckles him, and pulls him to his feet. “Come on, Derek,” he says gently, one of Derek’s arms around his shoulders again. Derek nuzzles his nose into the side of Stiles’ face. 

“You’re hot,” he says throatily, his mouth right by Stiles’ ear. Stiles shifts so that he can’t feel Derek’s breath in his ear and nods, mollifying him.

“Thank you, Derek.”

“Your fucking _mouth_ ,” he says, still sounding wrecked, “fucking _does_ things to me.”

Stiles swallows painfully and tries to breathe so that he can respond accordingly and shut Derek the hell up.

“I, um. Hopefully they aren’t bad things?”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just lets Stiles lead him up the stairs of the front porch. “Do I need to take you inside?” Stiles asks, and belatedly realizes that if he lets go of Derek right now he’ll fall to the floor and very possibly break all 206 bones in his body, so, yeah, dumb question. 

“My bedroom’s upstairs,” Derek says by way of answer, and Stiles is a bit shocked that there even is a bedroom in this shithole of a house. Derek may not be a werewolf here but apparently his house is still burned and it still looks like shit. 

“I’ll help you _upstairs_ ,” Stiles says vaguely. He absolutely does not want to insinuate that he’s going to Derek’s bedroom, especially not to this Derek in this state.

“Okay,” Derek says, and he swings around so that he’s hugging Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles says, partially because he feels the need to say something and repeating the last spoken word is the easiest thing he can do, partially because, _okay._ Derek’s arms are warm and strong around Stiles and his body is warm and strong and he smells like sweat and alcohol but also like the cologne he wears in real life sometimes, and it feels nice all the way up until Derek starts rubbing his stubble against Stiles’ neck.

“Jesus, dude,” he says, and Derek nuzzles in some more. He nuzzles until the nuzzling gets replaced by something warm and wet and sucking, and Stiles feels his cheeks heat up.

“Mmm,” Derek moans into his neck. Stiles really should get him to bed, get him off of himself, get out of this stupid world where stupid attractive Derek is drunk and stupid and sucking on his neck, but sometimes you just have to let things happen, right?

Wrong. Because things like unwanted boners exist.

“Derek, Derek, shit, come on, I need to—you need to go to bed.” 

“Don’t wanna,” Derek says against Stiles’ neck. 

“Yes, you do,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says because apparently he’s a child now. Stiles just shifts him so that he can walk him into the house and he groans. “Too hard,” he whines.

“I’ll help you, it will be easy.” Stiles is actually starting to become weary of arguing. “Come on, let’s go up.”

“No,” Derek says. “Too _hard_.” He turns and presses into Stiles hip and, um. Hard. Right. Derek is hard against his hip. Derek. Dick. Stiles wills his knees to stay solid and locked.

“Fuck, Derek, you need to stop doing that. I’m going to help you upstairs and you’re going to sleep this off and…” he trails off when Derek lays his head in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder, hot cheek to cool neck. “And I’m going to go somewhere else that is not here, because this is way too tempting and more than torturous.”

Derek snorts softly, like he knows what Stiles is talking about. “Upstairs,” he says, and Stiles helps him into the house and up the stairs.

(It’s fucking difficult. Like, taking-the-SAT-while-hungover difficult.)

When they get up to the top step, Stiles takes a minute to thank the moon and stars and Florence Welch for the fact that Derek had stopped groping him long enough for him to get him upstairs, but then he takes another minute to curse the moon and stars and Aquafina Purified Water (he can’t do it to Florence) that he got harder and harder the longer Derek’s arm was around him and his body was pressed to his side. He didn’t sign up for this, he really didn’t.

“That was,” Stiles is about to say _hard_ but he realizes he totally can’t say that so he stops himself. Derek just goes, “Mmm,” and nods his head to the right.

“Your room is that way?” Stiles asks. He considers just leaving Derek to his own devices again, because he needs to either A) jerk off or B) go to a different world, maybe one where Derek hates him because he’s starting to not be able to handle this, and Derek is apparently suddenly able to stand by himself because he traps Stiles against the banister and leans in. Stiles is now feeling Derek’s boner against his body for the second time of the hour.

“I,” Stiles says, and Derek puts his face about 2.5 centimeters (that is, one inch) away from Stiles’. “Personal space?” Stiles tries, but Derek slides his hands down both of Stiles’ back pockets and tugs him impossibly closer.

“Nonexistent,” Derek says, and he grins lazily before ducking down and pulling Stiles’ earlobe between his teeth. 

“Derek,” Stiles gasps, but he can’t tell if he’s pleading or begging or about to cry or so horny the only thing he can say is the name of the person closest to him (is that just a porn thing? Because it’s starting to feel like it might be a real-life thing) and he just squeezes his eyes shut and lets Derek suck on his earlobe, suck on his neck, make those fucking noises…and then suddenly it’s bright and he opens his eyes and fuck. Fuck. The first thing he sees is Scott and a cabin and he feels so left-high-and-dry that he’s about to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> To twentysomething, the kidfic universe is extremely reminiscent of yours in DILF and I apologize. Like, profusely. That was my ultimate Sterek kidfic fantasy so it weaseled its way in. (Sorry again, I love DILF so muhuhuhuccch.)  
> Anyone who hasn't read [DILF](http://archiveofourown.org/works/487739), please do, it's much better than how I portrayed it (however accidentally it was.)  
> Another thing: this is tbc, and next chapter is Different, capital D. :)


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